My father was an angry man. He took what he wanted, convinced it was his due for the wings he had lost. The power he had been stripped of.
Before dying he whispered in my ear, lips aquiver.
“The sky is your birthright. You’ll grow strong. Take it. Reclaim the heavens.”
I slid my blade out from between his ribs and looked to my mother. Finally safe.
Yet his words lingered, and as I grew and grew, I understood that I was special. That I could take what I wanted. But I didn’t want the skies.
I wanted the world.
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alt="Blood Bank Security System by M.D. Smith IV"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="The Attic Door by B.G. Smith"
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alt="Off of the Screen by Alethea Paul"
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alt="Head-mounted Camera Discovered on Skull by S.F.J. Painter"
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